Hidden in the Lake
by rufeepeach
Summary: Belle falls into the lake while gardening in Rumpelstiltskin's estate. One daring rescue later, and smuttiness ensues. Rumbelle.
1. Chapter 1

She falls into the lake.

Of course she does: Belle has known all her life that she is doomed to clumsiness. One day, she thinks, she'll trip over her own feet and fall under a troll bridge, never to be heard from again.

She curses like the soldiers in her father's war room as she wades through the water her dress sodden and ruined. At least Rumplestiltskin keeps his lake clean and clear, so she's not also muddy and smelly. That would just be the mouldy cherry on the stale, soggy cake.

Still, she's annoyed at herself. Ladies are, after all, supposed to be graceful and elegant.

"Going for a swim, dearie?"

_Goddamn it_.

Rumplestilskin watches her from a rock, eyes bright and merry, smile wide. He's got his arms crossed, but she knows that won't last. The man can't keep his hands still for two seconds without some outlandish gesture.

"I fell in." she hopes, though she knows its futile, that he'll leave it at that.

"I can see _that_," he giggles.

"Can you turn around?" she says, when she reaches the shore, and sees he's still watching her.

"Whatever for?"

"My dress is all… clingy. Avert your eyes."

"Hmmm, let me think…" he drums his fingers on his chin, and even in this he somehow adds a dramatic flourish, "No."

She looks at him, and wonders if, at this point, she has anything left to lose. She's soaked to the skin – she'd fallen from the rock shelf he now stood on into a deep part of the lake, so even her hair has pondweed in it – and Rumplestiltskin has seen her, and all concept of dignity or pride has been entirely lost.

So she reaches up, grabs his boots in both hands, and pulls him in with her.

She figures that her linen dress is bad enough, but he's covered in leather. This is a suitable revenge for laughing at her misfortune.

He sputters, and gives her such a fierce glare with such manic eyes that, for a moment, she's honestly scared. She just pulled the Dark One into his own lake, without warning, and dared to smile as she did it.

People have been smited for less, she supposes.

She starts to move away, and his glare vanishes, replaced by the smile she loves and fears the most: the wide, almost innocent, almost_ childlike_ smile that means shenanigans. She's learned to dread that smile: she's the caretaker, so she has to clean up the mess afterwards.

He splashes her.

And giggles.

And she has to laugh, too, because he looks like he's all of five years old right now, and he's adorable like this. So she splashes him back, aiming for the eyes.

He repels the water with magic, and sends it rushing back over her.

"Hey! That's not _fair_!" she has water in her eyes, she can barely see, and his giggles seem to ring from everywhere at once.

And her hands are wet and somewhat dirty, so she doesn't want them anywhere near her eyeballs right now. Belle staggers through the water, blind, trying to find something that resembles dry land.

"Rumplestiltskin!" she calls.

"Yes, dearie?" he's behind her, and she whirls, hands out, trying to grab him. He dances away, and she can feel the water swirl and swish around her waist.

"Come _back_ here!" she's chasing after him, assuming that if she can grab onto him then he can haul them back to dry land. Or just transport them to a room in the castle with dry clothes and a multitude of towels. Whichever's easier.

"Over here!" he calls, and she can tell the bastard's throwing his voice.

Never play childish games with a sorcerer. He will win.

She's wandered out to where it's too deep for her to stand, following his jeering calls, and suddenly the rock shelf beneath her feet gives out. She's kicking madly, and her skirt is dragging her down, and there's water in her mouth.

She tries to call his name, but it comes out garbled, and she's chocking on water she's accidentally inhaled.

Something's wrapped around her feet, something strong and scaly, cutting off the circulation to her foot. She screams, but she's being dragged underwater and all she sees is a train of bubbles, her last breath, rising to the surface as she's dragged deeper. She can feel the scales around her ankle digging into her flesh, hard enough to draw blood, the tentacle wrapped so hard that she can't feel her toes. She kicks furiously, trying to break free, trying desperately to swim back to the surface, to light and oxygen.

She can feel her energy draining, see the darkness descending behind her eyelids, the last of her air running out.

Then there are arms around her waist, and she's being hauled upwards, and her feet are scrabbling for purchase on the lake floor. They're moving backwards, up the bank and onto dry land, and the tentacle finally lets go.

She collapses against Rumplestiltskin's chest, breathing hard, trying to remember how to breathe and think at the same time. "Are you all right, dearie?" he asks, voice low and concerned, breath warm on her ear.

She shivers. She can't help it.

"Yes, yes, sorry." She says, as she reaches around and finds his sleeve, which is only mildly damp, and rubs the dirt and water from her eyes.

She looks up, blearily, and his face is incredibly close. Her heart is suddenly beating in double-time, and she's breathing fast, every nerve in her body focused on where his hands are still splayed on her stomach. If she just shifted a little in his arms, her lips would be brushing his jaw.

He seems to have noticed this, too, because she can feel his own heart behind her shoulder blade, pounding fast.

She hopes she can blame it on almost drowning. He doesn't have that excuse

"What _was _that?" she asks, trying to break the silence.

"The Kraken," he murmurs into her ear, "I thought it long gone and dead, but apparently not."

It's like the moment when she fell from the curtains and into his arms. He'd looked at her like she was an alien creature, like he couldn't work out what she was, or why she was smiling at him.

He keeps saving her; she wonders why he'd bother, if she's just hired help.

"Well, thank you for saving me," she's still looking up into his face, expects him to let go, let her sit up and return to the castle so she can sort herself out, and find something else to entertain him, distract him from her.

"It's… no matter."

He still hasn't let her go; she's starting to think that maybe he enjoys having her in his arms like this.

Her dress is clinging to her, and she can see her own limbs outlined against the soaked fabric. She hopes he hasn't noticed. "Why do you have a_ Kraken_?" she asks, trying to make light of her latest near-death experience.

Housework is _dangerous_.

"I'd heard the beast was untameable, the destroyer of even the strongest of ships." He hasn't moved, but his eyes are fixed firmly on the sky, "I was young, and foolish, and decided to defeat it myself. Then hold it in the Lake, just to keep reminding it who had the power around here."

"Maybe not such a great idea?"

"I don't know: there are certain people who could benefit from a run-in with that beastie. The Queen of the Forestlands, for example."

She laughs again, although she feels a little evil for doing so. He's gorgeous when he's wicked. She feels the rumble of his laughter against her whole body, and she shivers again. It's mid-April, and not especially warm outside, and she's soaked to the skin in lakewater, but suddenly she's burning up.

She tries to move away, to get back inside and change, so they can move past this like every other time he's looked at her like that.

Like he wants to eat her _alive_.

But he doesn't let go, in fact he pulls harder, and she mentally shrugs her shoulders. If he wants her to stay here, curled against his chest, with his arms around her, then she certainly has no problem with that.

"Um, Rum?" she asks, after a few minutes, "Is everything alright?"

"Hmm?" he hums against her hair, and she's suddenly afraid he might have fallen asleep.

"I'm never going to dry off if you don't let me get up."

"You nearly _died_, dearie, allow me a few moments to remember that you didn't."

It's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to her, and she feels her heart give a painful little squeeze, like it's trying to burst from her chest and fall in his lap.

She leans up, on impulse, and presses her lips against his.

She'll never forget how astonished he was, in the first moments of their first kiss. He lies there, astonished, completely still as she moves her lips on his, as if he can't believe what was happening.

And yes, she's read a hundred books about love, and romance, and kisses like fireworks, and everything they're supposed to be.

But he tastes of rainwater and grass, like dew in the morning, and nothing explodes. Which, given her track record with accidents and breaking things, is always a point in the 'plus' column.

She moves away, looks down at him, and hopes she hasn't broken some horrible rule with her impulsiveness. He'd just looked so beautiful, lying there in the grass, murmuring such sweet words.

"Belle?"

"Yes?"

"Wh-" he collects himself, "Whatever was that for?"

She's beaming, she can't help it, "For rescuing a damsel from a Kraken."

"Oh."

"Can I do it again? I'm not sure if one kiss is reward enough…"

He doesn't answer her, he just grins, and pulls her back down to him. His hands on her waist tighten and he's rolling them over, so he's looming over her and her head is laid back on the soft, warm grass. The sun has come out, bright and shining, and the whole garden is suddenly warmer, suddenly the middle of summer.

She wonders how much of this estate is truly under his control.

Then she stops thinking, as he slides his tongue into her mouth and massages hers with it, stopping all power to her brainstem. His hands move over the wet fabric of her dress, rubbing sensitive spots heightened by the friction, leaving trails of fire in their wake.

She whimpers into his mouth, and she swears she feels him grin. His sharp teeth scrape against her bottom lip, and she slides her fingers against his wet hair, holding him still.

She moves down, along his jaw, nuzzles there as she had imagined before. His skin is rough, almost scaly, but warm, and he smells of gold dust and magic.

"Do you want to dry off, Belle?" he murmurs into her ear, and she trembles.

"Yes, please." She replies. She doesn't think he means to let her go back to the castle and change.

She can feel his smile against her skin, "Well, then, we'd better get these wet clothes off, hadn't we, dearie?"


	2. Chapter 2

_accio-firewhiskey prompted: weather forecast  
>schmoo999 prompted: honey bees<br>3pirouette prompted: Pink and Yellow_

* * *

><p>He was outright cheating.<p>

It should have taken at least a minute for him to navigate the sodden, tangled knots on the front of her dress. Instead, he just waves a hand, and her bodice falls open as if by magic.

No _as if_ required. He used magic.

And then, he has the nerve to _smirk_ at her, mockingly, when she gasps at the sudden sensation of cold air on her damp skin, and tries to wrap her dress back around her. It's not that she's at all _opposed_ to his taking her clothes off - quite the opposite, in fact – but the shock is almost too much to bear.

He shakes his head, waves a disapproving finger at her, and pushes her hands back down to her sides. He doesn't hold them there - he has _much_ more interesting things to do with his fingers - but he glares at her when she tries to move them again, "Now, now, dearie, you've been through something traumatic. You need to rest."

"This isn't particularly restful," she points out, with a small smile, "Perhaps you should leave me in peace."

"Now, Belle, for all that reading, you've never heard that ravishment is the best cure for shock?"

She giggles, and shakes her head. He gazes at her fondly for a moment, and her skin flushes just from the intensity of that smile, the adoration in his eyes. _How could she have missed that, all those times before? _Then his hands are on her breasts, ghosting feather-light touches over sensitive skin, and she gasps. Suddenly, it isn't so funny.

"Well, then, allow me to educate you."

His fingernails scratch over her skin, circle against one sensitive nipple, and her back arches up into his touch. He nods, approvingly, and repeats the motion.

She could swear he's laughing at her, and somewhere in the fog of her mind she feels a twinge of irritation. She suddenly wishes that she could touch him, torture him the way he seems intent on torturing her.

Then his mouth retraces the path his fingers had followed, and he's running his tongue over her puckered flesh, and there is no more thought.

His lips move to lavish attention on her other breast, as his quick, restless fingers quest lower. They reach the waistband of her skirt, run a line under the hem along her flat stomach, warm fingers against frozen skin, and she watches him with wide eyes, breathing hard.

He looks up at her, presses one last kiss to her chest, and his fingers shift just a little lower, run over the curve of her hipbone.

"Now, aren't you feeling better already?"

"Um…" _Better_ wasn't the word she'd use: _excited_,_ nervous_,_ overwhelmed_, heading slowly but surely towards _absolutely bloody amazing_ seemed closer to the mark.

One finger suddenly darts lower, scrapes against her soaked underwear, against some wonderfully sensitive spot that makes her cry out in surprise, her eyes fixed on his, "Yes!"

"Good…" he almost _purrs_, as he shifts down her body to sit between her legs. Her heart is pounding, faster than she's ever felt it, as he takes the waistband of her dress in two hands and pulls it apart.

The magic leaves a tingle in her legs, a warmth that fans out across her skin, as he tears her skirt in two and lays her bare to his feasting eyes.

He lets her lie there for a moment, stripped of her soaked clothing, basking in the summer sunshine. His expression is something akin to wonder, to awe, and she just has to lean up, to pull him down and kiss him long and tender. No one has _ever_ looked at her like that: like she is some sort of goddess, and all he wants in the world is to worship at her feet.

"You're soaked, too," she reminds him, "Surely we should do something about that?"

He shifts, and grins when her eyes squeeze closed, as they align perfectly, his hard cock pressed against her hot, dripping core. He rotates his hips, so the friction spreads upwards, rubs hard against her clit, and she buries a whimpering scream against his shoulder.

"How do you feel, dearie?" he whispers in her ear, "Any better now?"

He stops, allows her to catch her breath and look back up at him, and waits for her response, "Getting there…" she's proud of the coy little smile she musters, the almost-seductive look that gleams in her eyes.

She can see the moment when he decides that enough is enough, that he's wearing far too much clothing for true ravishment to take place.

She has to laugh, although it comes out high and hoarse, when he snaps his fingers, and she feels the laces of his complicated boots unravel against her naked shins. There are many advantages to having a magically-inclined lover, Belle is discovering. One of which is that nakedness is much easier achieved.

When he's as naked as she, as ready as she, he lines them up and searches her face with his eyes. For all the domineering, all the exerted control, in this moment, when they're about to cross an irreversible boundary, he's suddenly vulnerable, seeking permission.

She swallows, hard, pleasure bursting through her at the sensation of him right there, right in the centre of the ache between her legs, and smiles wide, telling him that it's all right, that she needs this as much as he does, that she has done for a good long while now.

He moves forward, over her, and slides all the way inside. She cries out, clings to him, digs her fingernails into his shoulders at the sensation.

And he's a _gentleman_. He doesn't begin immediately, doesn't fuck her hard and fast, like an animal or a monster. He waits, he lets her adjust to him, waits for her to sigh and shift against him impatiently, needing the friction more than she needs _oxygen_, before he starts to move, thrusting hard and slow.

She cranes her head up, her lips finding their new favourite spot at the corner of his jaw. She nibbles lightly, and he quivers against her, stilling before picking up the pace somewhat. She smiles into his warm skin, and leans up to his ear, bites lightly on his earlobe.

He makes a harsh sound, guttural and barely human, against her neck, and she hutches her legs up, needing more of him, _all _of him.

"Gods, Belle…" he growls against her, the vibration sending tendrils of pleasure across her skin, as he slams into her, as far as he can go, ripping a scream from her throat as he fucked her into the ground. She rocks against him, encouraging, feeling the tension in her belly spiral closer to release with every grind of his hard cock against her clit.

"Come for me, Belle, please," he half-pants, half-groans, and when has she ever been able to resist his commands? She falls apart around him, screaming her release, her walls clenching hard around him as she rides out her orgasm.

He bites down on her shoulder, sucks hard as her climax triggers his own, and his sharp teeth and hard mouth leave a bruise on her skin.

He collapses against her, moves them around so she's back to lying on his chest, her hair drying in knots and tangles in the summer heat. He strokes the top of her head absently as they lie in the sunlight, and fall asleep curled up together in the grass.


End file.
